


Where Nothing Hurts and Nothing Breaks

by Sundial_at_Night



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Gen, Hurt Loki (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, One Shot, Rescue, Some other characters are mentioned but that's it, Whump, Whumptober 2020, no.5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sundial_at_Night/pseuds/Sundial_at_Night
Summary: Written for Whumptober 2020 No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING? - RescueThor finds Loki weeks after he falls from the Bifrost. But for Loki, it's been much longer.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 153





	Where Nothing Hurts and Nothing Breaks

Loki woke, bones aching and sore, on the cold stone floor of his cell on _Sanctuary II._ He cracked his eyes open, taking in the pure darkness. There were no windows, no other prisoners, no light. The only things that filled the room were the constant drip of water from a protruding pipe in the corner, and the accompanying smell of mildew.

He tested all of his limbs warily, starting with his feet and working upward. He tried to curl his fingers, all of which had been numb before. Now, they shot sharp flares of pain up his entire forearms. Loki grit his teeth and rode it out.

_Broken._

The pain brought the memory. He could remember now. How that had happened. It was Nebula, he thought. She enjoyed breaking things.

Loki pushed himself up on his elbows, leaned against the back wall, and faced the door, which he couldn’t see but knew was on the opposite side of the cell. It had a tiny slot at the bottom, and was at least six inches thick by what Loki could gauge from his constant testing of it in the beginning.

Well. Before.

Before he’d realized that nobody escaped these dark cells, and nobody from Asgard would come to get him. Why would they, after all? What more was he than the unwanted prince? A prince, who, apparently, had never really been a prince at all, only a pawn. What use did he serve to them now; untamed and wild as he was?

_The monster will always show itself._

He had called to Heimdall, when they found him, though barely coherent, muttering nonsense and putting up the most pathetic struggle known to the Nine. He had called to his family when they tore him apart piece by piece, to Thor, to his moth—to _Frigga_ —and even to Odin on the rare occasions he’d teetered on the edge of blessed unconsciousness.

They did not come, and never would.

He did not call out for them anymore. What point was there in that? He knew he was completely, utterly, alone. Even if he did manage to get out of the cell, what then? Prisoners did not escape _Sanctuary,_ and what remained for him on Asgard?

 _Another cell,_ Loki imagined bitterly. A kinder one, perhaps, but a cell, nonetheless. A cage for Odin’s wayward son.

No.

Not son.

Never that.

Loki curled his legs against his chest and waited. He mentally recited classical poetry, prose— _anything_ to fill the silence that could stretch on for _hours._ His thoughts drifted to Midgard and the months he spent there while civilization was still young. He imagined Midgard’s London in the days when the streets smelled of sewer waste, the air of putrid chemicals and smoke, and the theatre stayed open late almost every night. He replayed the performances in his mind, whispered the lines he had memorized for parts he played centuries ago. Idly picked at the fringes of the fraying clothing he’d arrived in. _Anything_ to delay the inevitable decay of his mind.

He did not think of Asgard, of the Allfather or the Allmother.

He forcefully pried his thoughts away from Thor.

He thought of Jotunheim often, of how everything went so very wrong in such a short time.

He thought of the Void often as well, unintentionally, and startled himself from his memories whenever he did so, temporarily unable to breathe. As if his lungs had forgotten how to draw air again.

He tore his mind away from those memories too, though for the opposite reasons.

Loki looked up as he heard footsteps outside. Not the Other, who was always flanked by Chitauri guards, weapons clicking together and boots stomping. Not Ebony Maw, who did not bother to walk, levitating above the ground to surprise prisoners when he entered. He laughed when they struggled to get to their feet.

Loki hated him the most.

The other members of the Black Order left scars on his body; Maw left them on his soul, tearing into his magic with metaphorical claws, distorting and twisting it into something unrecognizable and broken. It would take him years to recover it, and even then… even then, there was a chance it would never be the same. Still. He saw himself try because—despite what many on Asgard would believe—Loki did not give up easily. And never with something as sacred as his seiðr.

 _Soon,_ he decided. Soon, he would get out of this hellhole, return to Asgard (where Odin would leave him to rot in the dungeons), and then go about the slow process of fixing the damage Maw had inflicted. Like rebuilding a collapsed house brick by brick with only his bare hands as tools.

Loki lifted his head. The footsteps came closer, and the door to the cell opened, hissing as the locks released. Light flooded into the room, partially blocked by the silhouette of a familiar figure.

“Loki.”

Oh, Norns. _Finally._

“Thor.”

His brother lunged to his side and knelt on the ground, eyes scanning Loki for any trace of injury. His hands hovered over his body, careful and unwilling to risk harming him with an embrace.

Careful to keep his broken hands close to his chest, Loki leaned forward into Thor, who finally ceased his hesitation, and wrapped his arms around him tightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered pitifully. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—It wasn’t—I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’m here,” Thor said softly, cradling Loki’s head against his shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have let go,” Loki murmured into his armour. He took in the scent of ozone and metal that clung to his brother like the storms. “I shouldn’t—”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. It took time for Father to gather enough dark energy to send me here.”

“And to bring us back, I presume.”

“Yes. Are you injured?”

Loki nodded and broke away. “Hands.”

Thor looked down at Loki’s hands, which were twisted and disfigured. They would heal, eventually; they had done worse to him. His eyebrows lowered. “Can you walk?”

“Perhaps.”

“I am going to hope that’s a yes. We’re going to get you out of here. Just have to get off this damned ship.”

“I know. It is warded.”

“So, you can’t magick us out of here?”

Loki shot his brother a withering look, which must have lost some of the effect due to the fact that he was still cowering in the corner, unable to stand on his own. Well, most likely. He had not tried for… some time. “If I were able to “magick myself out of here”, I would have done so months ago.”

Thor’s expression spasmed. “Months? Loki…” he trailed off, head dropping. “How long…”

Loki carelessly shrugged one shoulder, and instantly regretted it when it jostled his injuries. “I can’t say.” He looked up at Thor. “... Why?”

He sighed. “Since you fell—”

_Let go._

“—it has been _weeks,_ brother, not months.”

That confirmed his suspicions. Time worked differently here. How, exactly, Loki did not know.

“Oh.”

But… How did that work? Time should have been consistent, apart from planets in close proximity to singularities. Unless…

Unless the Void _was_ a singularity. Or perhaps the Bifrost had created one after its destruction. That was likely the case, though Loki had never looked into the Void as a subject of study.

Thor’s voice broke him out of his musings, somehow knowing what Loki’s train of thought, even after everything that had happened since the last time they had spoken. “You can think about space-time theories later, but for now, we should get out of here.”

Loki was entirely in agreement with that plan. But first.

“Tell me something only you would know.”

Thor’s face scrunched up. “What?”

“Tell me—”

“No, I got that.” He shook his head minutely, then asked: “Why?”

Loki swallowed deeply, unsure of how to explain. “They… have a creature, quite skilled in crafting illusions. Elaborate enough to trick even me.”

“Loki,” he said softly, moving one arm to cup his neck. “Of course, I’m real. I—” he cut off, blue eyes locking with green. “Have they done this before?”

“Is this _strictly_ relevant?” Loki snapped; his patience was thinning. Their window of escape narrowed with every passing second. “Just prove it. We can discuss the rest later.”

 _Prove you’re real,_ he didn’t say. _Please let this be real for once._

Thor’s lip turned down at the corner as he considered something only he would know. “When I lost my hammer,” he decides on after a moment’s thought, “you proposed dressing me up as a bride—”

“The mortals tell that story as part of their mythology,” Loki interrupted. “Try again.”

Thor, who usually would have gone quite pale at the mention of any others knowing of the Wedding Story, only mirrored his previous expression and recounted the tale of how Loki sent a herd of wild goats chasing Thor through the palace after he spilt ale on some spell book or another.

Satisfied, Loki nodded and forced himself just a little away from the corner.

“Here.” Thor moved to wrap an arm under Loki’s waist, and it was alarming little he seemed to weigh to his older brother. Even with Thor’s strong arms around him, Loki’s legs nearly gave out. He tried to grab Thor’s opposite shoulder, then gasped when his broken fingers couldn’t hold on. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

Together, they staggered, barely breathing, toward the low light of the doorway.


End file.
